


after everything

by mipmap



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, THEY'RE A FAMILY OKAY, completely medically and magically inaccurate, kind of??, lol forgot to tag that this has a happy ending if not obvious from the summary, now w/ additions!, some blood/injury but really not anything too graphic, there isn't really a plot just some sad and some hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27605443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mipmap/pseuds/mipmap
Summary: in which Tim thinks he's dying, and then he doesn't.+ snippets in the same AU
Relationships: Batfamily - Relationship, Jon Lane Kent & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Duke Thomas
Comments: 14
Kudos: 188





	1. p1

**Author's Note:**

> I call this "the author is from an incredibly loving and affectionate family but the pandemic means that she has had no meaningful human contact with anyone in over four months and she is suffering, so she wrote hugs with practically no context, with way too many dashes."
> 
> no but for real, this was written in like 4 hours, not edited or beta-read, but it did make me feel better, so in the hopes that someone else enjoys, here!
> 
> the tiny bit of context: a very loose apocalypse AU. not even I know which canon I'm using. the batsibs love each other because I want them to.

“Damian. Damian. D-Damian.”

Tim can’t get his brother to stop _hurting_ him, pressing down so hard on his stomach that Tim wonders when his ribs will give out and Damian’s hands will, horrifyingly, fall straight through. He thinks about the likelihood of that for just a fuzzy second, and decides that yes, he probably is in some sort of shock.

“Damian, stop,” he coughs out, and feels the hint of blood splattering up the back of his throat. He swallows it down quickly so Damian can’t tell. “Stop, Dames – it’s okay.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Damian snarls, and the curl of his lip is so familiar that Tim actually wants to laugh, thinking about Damian’s snappishness before… before everything. Before fucking… fucking _Armageddon,_ basically, where everything that they’d ever known came crashing down. Before Gotham fell, before they trekked up the side of a mountain, before the flood of mud and ice separated them from their own family. Tim closes his eyes, repeating coordinates in his head, the coordinates where he and Damian are _supposed_ to meet Bruce and… and everyone. The units contort themselves in his mind, tumbling and twisting until the only thing he can think of, for some reason, is Damian’s hand in his the night before, his brother’s voice coming from chapped lips, saying _I’m sorry, Timothy, for… for what I did, when I first arrived in Gotham._ Tim forgave him a long time ago.

There are few things that Tim wouldn’t give for _before_ , now that he is slumped, dying, against the damp wooden wall of a decrepit, long-abandoned cabin. The hole in his side bleeds sluggishly, now, a wound that Alfred could fix by himself if they were in the Cave. But they’re not in the Cave, they’re on a fucking mountainside with no supplies in the middle of winter, and there’s no one to call because they’ve already _tried,_ months ago, for Clark and Kon and Jon and _anyone_. Tim can’t walk, and Damian can’t carry him, ankle fractured as it is, and so Tim is going to die in a moldy cabin with soaking wet socks and an empty stomach. But he’ll be _damned_ if he makes his kid brother watch.

“Dames,” he says again, trying to force the hoarseness out of his throat. “It’s time to go, bud.”

“No,” Damian replies, voice thick with tears and cracking in the middle. Is it the classic bad timing of puberty, or the grief that his brother is dying in front of him? The question makes Tim choke on his next breath. God, Damian is so fucking young. “No, Drake, don’t be ridiculous. We’ll wrap it, and stay here until you recover, and… and…”

“Thought I upgraded to Timothy?” Tim huffs, lips quirking into a half-smile. He immediately flinches when the action tears his cracked lips even further. The flinch pulls at his wound. Why does everything _hurt_ so bad?

“ _Fine_. Fine, Timothy, if that will make you listen, just… just let me think.”

“Uh, I think – I think the time for thinking has p-passed us by, bud.” It’s getting harder to force words out. How the hell does he convince Damian to leave? This would actually be easier if his little brother still hated him. Tim just decides to logic his way out. Like he always does.

“Listen to me,” he starts, inhaling deeply to get all the next words out. He folds his hand on top of Damian’s, still pressing into the soft part of his stomach. He can’t really feel it anymore. “It’s time to _go_ , Damian. There’s nothing that we can do, here. If you get back to Bruce, you guys can… you guys can come back for me, okay?”

Damian finally looks at his face just to glare at him, eyes red-rimmed but tearless. Tim’s heart cracks a little, because he knows that _Damian_ knows he’s lying. Ever since this shit-show began, Damian’s started to look to Tim as the brother that tells him the truth, even if it’s hard. Tim hates so much that he’s going back on that tiny bit of progress. But he needs his brother to live, and not watch him die, even more. As convicted as Tim is in his decision, watching reality sink into Damian’s hazel eyes is more painful than he ever could’ve thought. His façade wavers, and with a Herculean effort, he raises his free hand to cup Damian’s face, thumb rubbing at the ridge of his eyebrow.

“Damian. I’m so _sorry_.”

His brother ducks his head down, but presses into Tim’s hand. He takes a deep, shaking breath, and lifts his hands slowly from the gaping tear in Tim’s side. All Tim can do is move his hand to grip the back of Damian’s neck, weakly, but reassuringly, he hopes. Damian’s eyes drift back up to meet his, and Tim gives him a nod.

“…I’ll go to get Father. We’ll be back to get you soon, Timothy, so just – just stay in this location,” Damian orders, a semblance of his typical haughtiness peeking through. As terrible as Tim feels that his little brother has to comfort him on his deathbed, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel better.

“You do that,” he breathed out, slumping further as Damian stood up, his hands slipping to his sides. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Tim’s brain is far too fuzzy to register what Damian does after he stands up. His job is done, now. His family, all the way down to his stubborn little brother, is safe. Everything is going to be okay. He feels a gentle pressure, right at his hairline, and thinks he hears the thunk of a door falling shut, and then he doesn’t know anything at all.

\--

(Tim wakes up the next morning, feeling like his mouth was stuffed with cotton. He’s cold and damp all the way down to his bones, and the wound in his abdomen is still bleeding sluggishly, but he is… not dead. All he can think is _what the fuck_ , and then he passes out again.)

\--

Damian, three days after leaving his brother to die alone in a mountainside cabin, stares at the encampment down the hill. He can pick out his family, one by one, even just by their shadows. Todd, methodically cleaning one of his guns without even really looking at it, Brown and Thomas with their knees pressed together, seemingly cataloging supplies. Damian had no doubt that Cassandra and Alfred were somewhere further inside, along with… Richard, and Father.

What the fuck was Damian supposed to tell them? They’d think he killed Drake himself, they’d blame him for not doing more. They’d see – finally – that he was a failure. In a sick, shriveled part of his heart, Damian felt relieved. Finally, they wouldn’t pretend to see anything but a monster. The crippling weight of his… family’s… expectations would be lifted. The weight of their _love_ would be lifted. Damian would be free.

_But I don’t want that!_

He had Timothy’s blood still caked underneath his fingernails. He tried to find any sense of satisfaction, something that would have burst throughout his chest only a couple of years ago at the thought of Timothy dead, but he found none. Instead, all he found was a despairing hole, aching at the thought of his brother’s corpse a hundred miles away, likely frozen up by now. His hands shook as he thought of Timothy’s honesty when Richard couldn’t bear to tell him that the world was falling apart, his brother’s hand warm on his shoulder, his brother’s hand coldcold _cold_ against his face as he told him to – to fucking _leave_. What Damian really wanted was to slide down towards the encampment, wrap himself in Richard’s embrace, and never, never return to a world where Timothy was dead and it was Damian’s fault. He wanted Timothy’s hand to shove him forward, now, so they could both run to the only real home they’d ever had. Instead, all he had was blood under his fingernails.

He began to walk down.

Todd spotted him first, seated at a vantage point near the front of camp. He stiffened, first, only seeing Damian’s shadow through the tree line. Suddenly, his shoulders deflated in relief, his gun slipping into a looser grip. Damian feels his legs propel him forward faster without his will. _No, when I reach them, I’ll have to tell them - !_

“Damian,” Todd sighed, as if Damian’s arrival had lifted a great weight off of him. _No, you don’t understand, yet. Timothy’s dead._ “Thank fuck, kiddo, we were starting to get worried –“

He cuts himself off to half turn at Brown’s yell, her and Thomas scrambling upwards, kicking snow as they rushed at them. Todd’s gloved hand lands heavily on Damian’s shoulder as the shout alerts Cassandra and Alfred, both emerging from behind the low wall. They wear twin expressions of reserved gratefulness, relief, love. It is so subtle but so obvious. Damian’s heart is trapped between swelling in joy and collapsing in on itself in grief. Finally, Richard stumbles into view, followed by Father. In comparison to Cassandra and Alfred, their faces are so heartbreakingly open. Their love for him is etched so clearly on their faces and Damian feels like _he’s_ the one dying of a gut wound, now. He has to say it – he has to tell them, now, before he can soak up any of this _love_ being thrown so carelessly towards him, he doesn’t _deserve it, not after –_

“Timothy…” he manages to choke out, and senses rather than sees his entire family tense up. Ah, the observational skills of a Robin. He can’t seem to get the rest out, his throat constricting uselessly against words, tears, a scream, _anything at all_.

Damian lifts his head. He first meets eyes with Brown, of all people. She’s so… angry. It ripples across her face aside disbelief, fists clenching at her sides. In comparison, Thomas is so – so soft. He seems to crumple in gently upon himself. His back is still ramrod straight, because Thomas is respectable that way – but Damian remembers the sound of Thomas and Timothy, half-laughing half-screeching, tugging at controllers in each other’s hands to run the opposing virtual car off the track. The return to that kind of normalcy was a pipe dream anyways, now, but the memory slams into Damian’s chest like a well-aimed punch.

Cassandra and Alfred are worse. The butler has aged years in the couple of months since they’ve been pushed out of Gotham, but the unfinished declaration seems to deepen the wrinkles beyond repair. Damian somehow knows that a piece of this expression will be on Alfred’s face for the rest of time, with Timothy gone. Cassandra’s face is completely smooth – but her hands shake where she folds them in front of her, and tears glisten silver in the corners of her eyes.

“…You’re sure?” Damian looks up at Todd, at Richard, at Father. They’re… less accepting of death. But Damian nods. He felt the blood pump out of Timothy’s body, too much, too fast – impossible to survive. Todd sucks in a deep breath at his admission, squeezing his eyes shut for just a moment. His hand, still solid on Damian’s shoulder, tightens slightly. Todd glances back, towards Richard, and Damian starts to crumble.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, at the tears curling down Richard’s face, meeting gently on the bottom on his chin and dripping soundlessly into the snow. “I’m sorry, I tried, he was my – I didn’t – “

“I know,” Richard accepts him with grace, as he always does, kneeling in front of him, cradling his face in his hands, like _Timothy_ did –

“I know, baby.” Richard’s breath hitches painfully in the middle, and he wears his heartbreak like physical pain, and Damian wonders what he’s thinking about. He’s known Timothy for so long – is he thinking of his tenacity at seventeen, his quietness at ten? Train-surfing in Bludhaven? A four-year-old’s wide-eyed awe at a quadruple somersault? Is he thinking about all the sides of Timothy-as-a-brother that Damian never got a chance – never _will_ get a chance – to see?

Father doesn’t kneel next to Damian. He stands as tall as he ever does, as broken as he always is, and rests a hand on Damian’s hair, brushing it back. Damian closes his eyes at his father’s touch. He understands, in that moment, that he is still eternally precious and loved. The stab of guilt at this knowledge quickly follows.

“I’m glad you’re safe, son,” Father says, equal parts impossibly loving and irreparably shattered. “Tomorrow, we’ll go get your brother.”

\--

Tim is _still not dead_. He is so confused, but so grateful, and _so_ hungry. He’s much less cold than he should be, considering the freezing mountain, and much less infected than he should be, considering the lack of spleen. He doesn’t know what is happening in the slightest, but he is not complaining.

Well, he’s complaining a little bit.

He and Damian walked all the way up the mountain in the middle of a storm – which was not fun for so many reasons, but it has led to the unfortunate circumstance of Tim having no idea where he is. He has no supplies left, either, because he was actively dying and didn’t think he’d need anything. He’s been up here for a decent amount of time (although Tim’s not sure exactly how long, since he was pretty out of it for a while), and he can only hope that Damian actually is going to come back with Bruce and get him, even though the original plan was to come collect his _body_ , otherwise he’s kind of screwed.

He’s sitting on the dilapidated steps of the cabin when he hears the rustle of feet in snow.

In the back of his mind, he’s thinking about what he should do if the approaching people _aren’t_ family, but that’s very, very far in the back of his mind. Mostly, he’s just thinking about how fucking relieved he’ll be to see Bruce and Damian.

He dashes his way through the calf-deep snow until he sees the top of Bruce’s head, when he lets out a little whoop, now not thinking anything at all except _Dad!_

And then he sees _Damian_ , bewildered face popping up over the crest of the hill, and tears sting in his eyes. He stumbles a little, but his brother compensates by running at him full tilt, absolutely crashing into his torso and shoving him back. Tim is laughing and crying and he’s got snow down his back but he also has an armful of little brother and so – and so everything is fine.

“What the fuck, Timothy – “ Damian is feeling at his ribs, where the wound has completely closed up, leaving not even a scar. He looks back up at Tim, disbelieving and hopeful.

“I don’t know,” Tim admits breathlessly, still laughing a little, grasping Damian’s shoulders and sitting up slightly. “I have no clue, Damian, but I’m, I’m _fine_. And Damian –“

Tim’s voice breaks a little, again, because the thought has been plaguing him ever since it became obvious that he was actually getting better – he made his little brother think he was dead, however unintentionally.

“I’m so sorry, Dames, I didn’t know this was going to happen, I swear, I really thought –“ and his voice gets caught up with tears at how _scared_ he really was, once Damian left, once it came down to actually dying alone. Damian’s face starts to screw up as soon as Tim’s does.

“Shut up,” he says through his own tears, bubbling over his cheeks. “Just shut up, Timothy, I’m – I’m _glad_ –“

“All of us are,” Bruce finally says, and God, Tim gets to be warm again as his dad engulfs them both in a hug, arms firm around their backs, breath puffing shakily, tearfully, into their hair. “Tim, sweetheart, _God_ …”

Bruce pulls back to hold Tim’s face tenderly in his hands, brushing away tears with his thumbs while Damian curls his fingers into Tim’s jacket, still on his lap.

“Tim, glad is an understatement.”

\--

The three of them walk down the mountain together, and it takes some time. They move a little faster than Damian’s first awful trek alone, everyone with a bit more spring in their step. Tim gets a lot of questions, and has approximately zero answers. Eventually, Bruce puts a stop to it.

“It was a gift,” he says, curling a hand around Tim’s bicep, as if to make sure he’s still there. “We’ll leave it at that.” Damian huffs a little, but slips his hand into Tim’s and offers no complaints.

\--

It’s early morning when they reach camp, having walked through the night in their excitement to get home and their desire to not leave any of the family grieving for any longer than necessary. A part of Tim’s brain, traitorous as always, whispers _oh, but they couldn’t possibly have missed you that much,_ but Tim’s gotten good at shoving that feeling back where it belongs. Damian’s fingers curled desperately around his palm help. He edges ahead just a little bit – it’s been weeks, now, since he last saw his family, and he’s _missed_ them.

In a strange reflection of what Bruce and Damian quietly told him happened at Damian’s arrival, Jason steps out beyond the wall first. He’s not looking up, not really even paying attention to his surroundings. Tim squeezes Damian’s hand reassuringly before pulling ahead some more.

Jason looks up.

A hurricane of emotion sweeps over his brother’s face – confusion, amazement, then pure fucking joy. He opens his arms and laughs, incredulous but real. Tim starts running.

He hurls himself into his brother’s arms, snot dripping onto Jason’s shoulder as he begins to laugh-cry again, feeling every puff of Jason’s own laughter against his hair, heavy arms wrapping around his back firmly and lifting him in the air, just a little.

“Oh, what the _fuck_ , babybird, we thought –“

“I know, I know, he wasn’t wrong, I don’t know how it happened, but I’m okay, really –“ Jason’s warm, calloused hand cradles the back of his head, giving him one last fierce squeeze around his middle before releasing him and bending a little to knock their foreheads together.

“Whatever. What the _fuck_ ever,” Jason says, still a little disbelieving, but grinning wide. “Can’t look a gift horse in the mouth in this goddamn family, Timbo, Jesus Christ.” He ruffles Tim’s hair roughly before stepping back right in time for Steph to clobber him.

Her arms are so, so tight around his shoulders he thinks he hears them creak, and says as much to her while spitting her hair out of his mouth, grinning into the side of her head and hugging her back.

“-Can’t even let you out of our sight, I swear to God!” Steph shoves him back and punches him hard in the shoulder, then reels him back in, laughing.

“Sorry, sorry!” He repeats into her curls, half playing along and half honestly sorry. Duke is suddenly right beside her, smiling his wide, wide smile and grabbing at Tim’s shoulder over Stephanie, pressing his thumb securely against Tim’s collarbone. Tim leans forward to bump his head against Duke’s, his smile as infectious as always, even though Tim feels like he might never stop smiling, at this rate.

He’s released by both of them right in time to throw his arms around Cass, who holds him so tightly that his shaking, from joy and adrenaline and residual panic, fades into a fine tremor. He’s the one that pulls back to look at her face and she kisses his nose softly, her eyes relieved and peaceful. She guides him to Alfred, who embraces him like Tim might break, and for the first time Tim wonders if he actually might, safe in Alfred’s arms, where he’s always, always been safe, with Cass’s hand solid on his back and his family behind him. Alfred runs his thumbs under Tim’s eyes when he pulls away, fingertips gentle yet resolute against his face.

“My dear boy,” he murmurs, and sounds so fragile while standing so tall. “We are very glad to have you home.”

“Yeah,” Tim replies, biting his lip to try and keep the new set of tears at bay. “Me too, Alf.”

“Last one,” someone says, choked up, from off to his right, and Tim immediately turns to his big brother and just catapults himself against him. For once, he’s not thinking about everything that has happened between him and Dick and Robin, doesn’t feel at all guilty or resentful. His brother’s chest is warm and solid, and Tim has been so cold and afraid. Dick lets him hang off of him and wraps one arm over his shoulders, another around his middle, and _doesn’t let go_. He presses his cheek against Tim’s, even though they’re both crying and have _been_ crying for minutes now, and tucks his face against Tim’s neck, inhaling deeply for a moment. His shoulders suddenly shake again, and Tim holds him as tight as he possibly can as Dick’s hand moves from his shoulder to tangle in his hair, pulling back some to press a series of kisses across Tim’s temples.

“Couldn’t stay away from us for too long, huh?” Dick jokes tearfully, running his hand over Tim’s hair again and again, soaking him in. Tim doesn’t dare shake his head to dislodge him, even though he can’t force any words past the lump in his throat to confirm. He’s had more than enough of pushing Dick away – of pushing everyone away. He’s kind of terrified of how much he doesn’t want to do that anymore, after everything.

Damian has come over to his side, again, and Dick lets go of Tim’s shoulder to place a hand of Damian’s back, pressing them all a little closer together. Tim leans down to press his nose in Damian’s hair and smile into the crown of his head, thinking _my family, my family, my family_.

His stomach growls. Somewhere behind him, Steph snorts and Alfred grumbles good-naturedly. Tim thinks his face will literally split in half from his smile. He still feels like he owes Damian another apology. He’s still cold and hungry and weak. But this – this is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I don't actually think Damian would leave anyone to die, at least not at this point in his pre-teenhood. he's way too loyal. sorry, bud, it was for the barely-there plot, love you. you are also hard to write and I don't think I really did you justice. sorry, my dude. 
> 
> 2) Duke is a batsib. love him in "the scientific method" by dreampunks (I don't know how to link, sorry, but good sib content!)
> 
> 3) might continue this into more hugs/sibs saying "I love you" (it is true and they should say it) following in this same AU, but uhh... don't quote me on that
> 
> 4) I have no explanation for how Tim got hurt or how he healed. probs never will. 
> 
> 5) if batfam's reactions to Tim dying seem a little lackluster - was trying to write from Damian's POV (he thinks his brother is dead and he's had a rough time, okay) and it was only initial reactions. they def would've broken down later. 
> 
> 6) everyone not present (Babs, Kon, the Row sibs) are all fine, okay? I know I said this was an apocalypse AU but it's MY apocalypse AU and I'm not actually killing anyone


	2. p2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duke and Tim check out a glacier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an additional tiny snippet as a treat! at least a couple more little ones to come. actually was planning on posting two tonight but then I got tired and didn't get the second one the way I liked. 
> 
> tiny bit of context: set not long after ch.1 - they're looking at the glacier b/c they want to make a semi-permanent camp up there. it's defensible and stuff. think Mendenhall glacier in Alaska but higher and not melting.

Duke lays shoulder to shoulder with Tim, on his belly in the snow.

He’s got razor burn on the back of his head from when he cut his hair with the family razor three days ago – it stings a little as snowflakes melt on his neck.

“Does that hurt?” Tim gestures to the reddening mark. Duke feels a good bit incredulous as he shoots Tim a look, and he hopes the emotion shows through.

“I’ve had worse, but thanks for asking, I guess,” he says, as Tim raises his hands in mock-defense. It’s true. Even if he doesn’t take being Signal into account, his thighbone snapped near in half when they were getting out of Gotham. The pain had been excruciating for weeks without IV pain meds available. To make it worse, they’d had to keep moving quickly, dodging disaster after disaster and the desperate people that bubbled up in the wake. Duke barely remembers anything from that first month or so, except Bruce’s tense expression hovering over him. According to Jason, though, he’s probably better off not remembering. The family could barely stand to be in the same room before the apocalypse hit, and suddenly travelling as a pack in a high-stress environment wasn’t a great team-builder.

“Sorry, sorry,” Tim replies, grimacing.

“Nah, you’re good. Appreciate the concern, dude.”

“Yeah… anyways, you see anything up there?”

Duke looks back up at the glacier they’ve been watching for an hour now. Nothing’s been happening at the top, which either means that no one else has settled up there yet, or that the people who’ve settled up there haven’t woken up yet. Considering that the sun just rose up over the ridge twenty minutes ago, Duke figures the results are still pretty inconclusive.

“No…” Duke responds, dragging out the word. “But I don’t think that means anything. How long did Bruce want us to stay here, anyways?”

“As long as it takes us to come to a decision,” Tim shrugs. “I think he just wanted to give you a break from Steph and Damian’s fighting.”

“Over the last bit of falafel?"

“Yeah, the falafel. I can’t believe it lasted this long, honestly.”

“Me neither. I only got a little bit, too.” Duke sighs, readjusting his elbows, making little divots in the snow. He looks back up at the glacier, the way the light reflects harshly off the top. Out of the corner of his eye, he looks at Tim. It hasn’t been long since that one awful week where Tim and Damian got swept downstream and they all thought both of them might be dead. Then Damian comes back alone and they’re sure Tim is dead. Then Tim comes back and everyone is not-dead again. Duke thinks this might be a pattern he should just get used to, in this family. Whatever happened in that cabin, he’s grateful for Tim’s line of warmth against his side, peering intently at the glacier with him. His brother sees him looking and gives Duke a toothy grin.

He reaches out one hand to grip one of Tim’s, the one not holding the pair of binoculars. Tim squeezes back.

“One more hour? Then we go back?”

“Yeah, okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: I like these characters and their found family-ness. but for some reason I'm not really into them living in Gotham.  
> also me: destroy Gotham in an apocalypse and make them Family...But in the Wild (but only kind of?)


	3. p3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just cuddles and Dick suffering from oldest sibling problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually don't know anything about being an older sibling lol but let's pretend.
> 
> This is the bit I was working on last night but for some reason really got hit with Dick angst on ao3 today?? thanks good_ho_mens and emavee for that.
> 
> "Slipping" by incogneat_oh is where I first saw Dick calling Tim 'handsome.' very underrated piece for Tim h/c, by the way!

Dick rests one hand on Damian’s small shoulder, feeling it rise and fall steadily. His little brother lays curled on his side next to Dick’s bedding, his knees drawn up towards his chest, his hands held loosely against his sternum. Dick rubs his thumb over his shoulder blade. If Damian hadn’t come in, quiet but tense, Dick would’ve been making his rounds by now, checking up on everyone in turn. He always saves Bruce for last, because he always finds Bruce still awake, even when he’s not the one taking first watch rotation. His father is often doing nothing at all, sitting calmly with the light of a solar-powered lamp. He’ll offer Dick a wan smile, shadowed gruesomely by the harsh blue lamp. Dick thinks that Bruce and Batman were so intertwined that Bruce doesn’t know what to do now in the early hours of the morning.

He knows Cass is on watch right now, trusts her with his life as he trusts all of them. He still itches to see everyone himself – see their faces peaceful in sleep the way they never are in the daylight. But he can’t bear to leave Damian alone even for five minutes, on the off chance that he wakes up. So, he sits halfway propped up and rubs his brother’s shoulder; wonders if he’ll sleep at all tonight.

He’s halfway to delirious when Tim’s bedhead appears out of the darkness. The reflection of the moon on the snow makes it just barely light enough to make out his little brother’s slight figure, moving silently but surely. His hair is wild but looks oily even in the dim, cold moonbeams – none of them have showered in a couple of days, bouncing from place to place. Tim settles against Dick’s hip, across from the lump that is a sleeping Damian. He reaches a hand across Dick to just brush his fingertips over Damian’s ribcage when he inhales a soft little huff of breath. Dick leaves his hand on Damian’s shoulder but grips Tim’s chin softly with the other, giving his head a slight shake until the ghost of a smile twitches to life.

“Hey, handsome. Couldn’t sleep?” He speaks as quietly as he can, even though Damian’s a decently heavy sleeper. He used to wake up at even the tiniest sound when he first came to stay at the Manor, but now, at least when he’s next to Dick, he could sleep through a hurricane unless a bad dream interrupts him. Tim leans into the touch until his head rests on the curve of Dick’s shoulder, Dick’s hand holding the other side of his face to secure him there.

Tim just hums in affirmation, cheek smushed against Dick’s sweat-smelling shirt. Dick presses his dry lips to his brother’s temple, holding him tighter for a long moment. Tim just pulls his legs in a little closer and heaves a deep sigh, letting himself go completely lax.

This’ll do, Dick thinks to himself.

But Tim soon shifts out of the hold, moving to his knees to get back up. Dick hooks a hand around the back of his neck quickly, holding him still as best he can without jostling Damian.

“C’mon, Timmy, stay for my peace of mind, yeah?” It’s as non-desperate as Dick can manage to make it sound, but his eyes must let something bleed through, because Tim’s own eyes soften further. He wraps the arm not keeping himself balanced around Dick’s neck good-naturedly, leaning his head against Dick’s. Dick presses his nose into his brother’s shoulder and readjusts his hand to burrow in Tim’s hair.

“Then who would go check on everyone _for_ you, Dick? I’ll be back,” Tim promises, his voice honest and easy over Dick’s shoulder. Dick breathes out a little and closes his eyes. He gives Tim a last squeeze and pulls his face back from the warm shoulder.

Tim smacks a gentle kiss against his cheekbone and wriggles his arm away.

“Your nose is fuckin’ _cold_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim gives Duke a heart attack by sneaking up on him and grabbing his ankle. He flops on top of Jason's back and gets yeeted just a little in retaliation. He gets to go back and report to Dick that everyone is okay and then everyone goes to sleep.


	4. p4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian makes a tactical error. He gets out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said no one was actually dead in this AU and I'm sticking to it. 
> 
> context: same glacier from p2!

Damian… is in a spot of trouble.

Not a big spot, just a little spot – of the trapped-in-an-ice-ravine variety. His boot suddenly slips from where it was propped up and Damian hisses as he drops a couple more feet, hands scraping alone the icy walls. He tilts his head back, looking up at least fifty feet towards the lip of the ravine. He’d come up alone after Thomas and Timothy returned with inconclusive results about the occupancy of the glacier. Timothy had shrugged and offered to check again at a later date, but Damian was sick of camp at the bottom of the mountain, soggy in the spring rains. So, he grappled (slowly, without his Gotham equipment) up the side of the glacier carefully. As he’d expected, there was no settlement as far as the eye could see. Damian had simply decided to take initiative to collect information, when his feet dropped out from beneath him.

He steadies his feet on the opposite wall, bracketing himself in the narrow passage. He’s panting now, thighs and abdomen shaking from exertion. All he can do is keep himself from sliding down further – he heard most of his climbing supplies clang against the bottom some thirty seconds after they fell. That’s a long way down. Damian grits his teeth, remembering his family in the lower camp. It’s unlikely that they’ve noticed his absence, yet. He’d taken advantage of Richard’s exhaustion, sneaking away during his brother’s early morning watch. Richard was still fine-tuned to unfamiliar footsteps, but wouldn’t regard Damian’s own near-silent gait as a threat, letting Damian pass by unnoticed. If he fell now, his family might never know what happened to him. The ravine is much too deep and narrow to warrant exploration on its own – Damian’s death would be as sudden as his arrival in Gotham.

He breathes heavily, sweat balling up even on his freezing skin. His fingers dig into the ice uselessly, knowing he can’t drag himself upwards. _Damn_.

Is this how Timothy felt in that cabin?

From above the cavern, there’s a sudden crack – it sounds so painfully familiar that Damian reflexively blinks up into the sunlight, expecting a whipping red cape attached to a blue hoodie. It’s a hope against hope, one that has been disproven hundreds of times since the attacks landed on Gotham. Father calls for Clark, Tim calls for Kon, and Damian calls for Jon, but no one ever hears.

So, Damian must be hallucinating, because Jon’s silhouette peers down from the top of the ravine.

“Damian?” And Jon’s voice calls out to him. Damian blinks again. This all seems… very real.

“Jon?” He whispers, voice sounding raw.

“Oh my God!” Jon shouts, fifty feet up, the most realistic hallucination Damian’s ever had. “…what are you doing down there?”

“Falling,” he replies dryly, wondering if –

A short burst of wind brushes against Damian’s face – still cold, but so unlike the last half-hour spent in stiff air. More importantly, accompanied by a familiar face.

“Oh my God!” Jon says again, face split by a wide, wide smile. Damian’s lost it. His sanity must have dropped down the ravine with his gear. This is impossible. It’s been months. If Jon had been… alive, he would’ve answered Damian’s shouts in the wreckage of Gotham, his croaks as he stumbled down that mountain away from Timothy, his whispers in the night even after everyone agreed to stop calling for the Supers.

“The attacks – the very first ones – messed with the atmosphere, so now it feels like my ears are about to pop all the time now, but also, I _couldn’t hear you_! I was trying, I promise, but I couldn’t hear anyone’s heartbeat or anyone shouting or _anything_!” Jon babbles, hovering next to him, and Damian is just thinking how impressive it is that his hallucination has such logical reasoning when the sole of his boot crackles against the wall once again, sending him sliding a couple of inches.

Jon’s hand encloses around his wrist, warm. _This is not a hallucination_.

“Sorry, Dami, I’ll take you up.” Jon – _Jon, what the hell, Jon_ – hooks his hands under Damian’s armpits and flies them up to the lip of the ravine, settling Damian down a few feet away from the edge, where his knees promptly give out from underneath him. He can’t tell if it’s from the strain or the shock.

Jon immediately kneels down by his side, hands hovering over his shoulders. The two boys stare at each other for a long moment, one in relief and the other in incredulousness.

Then Jon’s hands settle on Damian’s shoulders, gripping hard and yanking him into a hug, the younger boy half-curling into Damian’s chest. Damian rests his forehead on Jon’s shoulder, reveling in the rise and fall. He squeezes his eyes shut before wrapping his heavy arms around Jon’s neck; hugging him back.

“The first attacks. Messed with your hearing. So, you couldn’t hear me,” He mumbles. Jon nods his head against his chest, black hair shuffling against his neck. It’s much shaggier than he remembered. Disgraceful.

“Yeah. Sorry,” Jon replies, leaning back and grinning at Damian again. “I was listening, really, but everything is a little… tinny.”

“I thought you were dead.” Damian doesn’t quite mean to say it, muddled from the cold and the near-death experience and the fact that his best friend is just suddenly sitting right in front of him. “I… called, and you didn’t answer, so I thought…”

“Sorry,” Jon repeats, shaking him a little by the shoulders. “I’m not dead. I’m here. So are you.” Damian looks his friend in the face, really looks at him – the bags under his eyes, the way his smile is genuine, but somewhat crooked, like he’s out of practice. He smiles back, just a little. He places his hands atop Jon’s on his shoulders.

“An astute observation.” Jon rolls his eyes, Damian’s smile edges towards a friendly smirk. He squeezes his fingers tightly around Jon’s. “We are here.”

Jon shuffles to rest his cheek on Damian’s shoulder again, humming in agreement. They sit for a long while, letting Damian catch his breath.

“…So you fell down a hole?”

“What the fuck are you even doing on top of a glacier by yourself?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon, my sweet summer child, whom I have never actually written. Damian and Jon are both roughly preteens at this point in time! they're also solidly best friends before everything goes to hell in a handbasket in this AU. 
> 
> (the bats did in fact notice Damian went missing. during this whole scene everyone is simply waking up and immediately spiraling into panic)


End file.
